


Worker Bees

by Corycides



Series: 100 Fics in 100 Days [27]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exploding planes, dead militia, a computer whizz with a bag on his head and a dozen shaved bees - Captain Baker's plan is going perfectly</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The rebels were at bay in the gutted hanger, firing into the dark and howling defiance. The militia fought – and died – in silence. Someone dropped and screamed, writhing like a half-crushed earthworm and clutching their stomach.

Mostly. Jeremy pulled his side-arm and shot the man in the head. Whiner.

'Sir,' the local militia sergeant said, dropping down next to him in the shadow of the battered old Cesna. 'If we push from the north side, we can root out the whole stinking cockroach nest of traitors.'

'You served with Captain Neville didn't you?' Jeremy asked, risking a peek around the dusty white nose of the plane. You could always tell, they tried to pull off the elaborate language without Neville's knack for oratory and disturbing stares.

'Major now, sir,' the sergeant said smugly. 

'Yeah, I heard.'

Jeremy sat back and eyed the man, trying to decide if it was reflected pride in a commanding officers achievement of 'suck on it, longest serving Captain in the militia' in his voice. Jeremy had been a major too, it was just boring. He had to spend a lot more time doing administration and governance and dispensing justice to the sort of people who put together petitions if 'justice' was defined as a bullet in the foot.

Not to mention the fact that Monroe tended to go through majors like...a paranoid narcissist through people that tried to thwart him. Not, Jeremy reminded himself, that he was going to dwell on that line of thought. He was not a psychologist, he didn't play one on TV and even if it was true – his only coping strategy would be his granny's old standby. And he didn't think a cup of tea and a nice biccie were going to help.

Although, come to think of it, he would kill for an oreo right now.

He'd been looking at the sergeant long enough that the man had started to sweat over his scratchy collar. Maybe he'd heard about Jeremy's attempt to sneak red shirts into the uniform code. 

'Sir?' he asked.

'I don't want to root them out,' Jeremy said, crossing his legs and sitting back to wait. 'They're bait. Nobody is interested in dead bait. We want live and wriggling. If only there was a why I could dose them in cheap whisky and guilt.'

'I don't...understand?' the sergeant said. 'Bait for who? What are we waiting for?' 

The north side of the aviation boneyard went up with a whoosh and a tooth rattling bang. 'That,' Jeremy yelled over the roar in his ears. He ducked down and folded arms over his head as hot shrapnel rained down around them. Shards of metal bounced off his hands, raising blisters. 

'Right,' he said, slapping the gawping sergeant on the shoulder. 'All yours now. Have fun.'

He signalled the retreat to his men and scrambled up onto his haunches, shuffling down towards the plane's tail. Around him the rest of his company did the same thing, leaving the sergeant and his depleted platoon looking very lonely.

'Wait,' the sergeant hissed, crawling after Jeremy. 'What are we doing. Should I withdraw?'

'God no,' Jeremy said. 'They'd realise it was a trick then. No, no. You stay here and look busy.'

It was hard to tell, even in the light of a burning 747 fuselage, but the man's face went pasty white. 'We'll be killed.'

'Oh, some,' Jeremy said. 'Look, you don't have to stop them getting away. Just make a good show of it. Make Neville proud.'

He darted across a stretch of open ground, flinching as bullets hit the ground around his feet, and threw himself, skidding on his belly, through a pre-prepared gap in the fence. McMurty grabbed his arm and hauled him up, the side of her face pink and blistery.

'Got 'im,' she said, grinning wide enough to split the blisters. 'Just where you said they'd be, sir.'

Jeremy slung a companionable arm around McMurty's shoulders. 'Milly, if you swung that way, and didn't look like a badly gone wrong Christmas dinner right now, I'd kiss you for that.'

'My name's Harriet,' she said politely.

'Uh huh,' Jeremy said, letting go and hunching over as they headed for the cover of the nearby trees. 'You know my rule, McMurty. I learn your surname if you're with me six months, your first name if you last two years. It's just not worth my while otherwise.'

'Yes, sir,' she said equably.

********************

Aaron woke up on the floor with a sack over his head, his arms tied behind his back and a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The same feeling he used to get when he saw a grinning bully and a nearby toilet, born of the realisation that things were about to get worse.

He levered himself up using his elbow, biting his lip to muffle grunts of effort. By the time he managed to sit up his shirt was soaked with sweat and he felt hot and dizzy under the hood. He could taste his own breath. It was hot and smelt of squirrel soup – and that hadn't been a good smell when he ate it.

Rope bit into his wrists as he twisted his arms, trying to find some slack. He had no real idea what he would do if he did. Miles, he thought with a burp of bitterness, would probably skin out of them in two minutes and then fashion some sort of sap out of it. Aaron? He just got raw wrists and sore shoulders. 

Giving up he set to work getting the bag off, biting the dusty (horsey?) fabric and tugging it down to pin under his chin. The last thing he remembered was handing the escaping rebels through the hole in the fence. Miles and Charlie had been on the other side, fighting in step like dancers. Then something sour clamped over his mouth and next thing...on the floor with a sack on his head.

He was sweating and claustrophobic by the time he finally yanked the hood loose, his jaw cramping and his breath wheezing like Danny's before an attack. Still, he could see again. Although not very well since he wasn't wearing his glasses. He blinked myopically at the a misty edged version of the world, which contained tilted walls (so a tent) and a blondish man (….yes) in a militia uniform. 

'Monroe,' he spat.

'You do think well of yourself, don't you,' the man commented, standing up. He walked over and positioned a pair of glasses on Aaron's nose, then crouched down to grin at him in focus. 'I'm Captain Baker.'

As far as Aaron was concerned, he could still be Monroe. It wasn't as if Aaron Pittman had been important enough to meet the man himself – even though if you HAVE a tech problem it might be an idea to talk to the 'Einstein of computing'. All he knew was that the guy was blond – check – and arrogant – check.

'How do I know you're telling the truth?'

The man mugged an exaggeratedly thoughtful face. 'If I was Monroe I'd have grabbed Miles too? If I was Monroe I'd send underlings to grab you? I don't really care what you believe and, lets be honest, it makes no difference to your situation?'

'Great,' Aaron muttered. 'Choose your own adventure.'

The guy – Baker, Aaron couldn't imagine Miles being around this guy without stabbing him – patted his cheek condescendingly. 'Cheer up, it's more Shadowrunner than Call of Cthulhu.'

'That's roleplaying,' Aaron muttered. 'Not choose your own adventure.'

Baker hauled him to his feet. After however long it had been since they grabbed him, Aaron's legs had gone dead. Prickles and pins stabbed at him from ankle to knee as Baker hauled him over to a table and shoved him down into a chair. Aaron's ass hit the seat with a tail-bone aching thud and his arms were pinned uncomfortably behind him.

He glanced around taking in the canvas walls and simple folding furniture: cot, table and chairs, backpacks.

'What do you want?' Aaron asked. 'Miles will come and get me.'

'Great,' Jeremy said. 'I kill Miles, life gets a lot less emotionally fraught back home.'

'Is that what Monroe wants?' Aaron asked, sweat dripping off his top lip into his mouth. 'Last I heard, he wanted him alive.'

'Orders have changed,' Baker said. He hoisted one of the backpacks onto the table. 'Now we're to kill everyone but Rachel and her kids on sight.'

Aaron bristled on Ben's behalf at this blond goon being so familiar with Rachel. 'She'd rather die than go back.'

Baker chuckled. 'That's what the kids are for.' He opened the backpack and pulled out a squarish bundle of shirts and socks. Unwrapping the laundry revealed a sleek, silvery laptop.

'I should have known the militia would be Apple users,' Aaron huffed.

That made Baker laugh. 'Yeah, you should have seen Monroe when he realised he could get his iPhone working again. No signal though.'

He opened the computer and pushed it in front of Aaron. 

'What, are you going to break my fingers on its uncomfortably sharp edges?' Aaron asked, fear making his cynicism jagged. 'It's a hunk of useless metal, just like everything else. I-'

Baker reached under his jacket and pulled out the chunky metal teardrop of the pendant. A light on the Mac flickered. Aaron felt tears prick his eyes. He had to blink them back hard, lashes clumping damply, and look away.

'I won't help you,' he said.

'Ummm,beg to differ,' Jeremy said. He stuck his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled piercingly. The flap twitched back and a woman came in with a matchbox balanced in her hand. She handed it to Jeremy and waited for the dismissive tilt of his head to slip back out again. 'You see, after Miles blew me up on the bridge-'

'That's you?' Aaron blurted. 'The wanker.'

'Yep, that's me,' Baker said cheerfully.

'I thought you were Miles' friend.'

'Facebook status: it's complicated,' Baker said. 'I mean, there's no-one I'd rather get drunk and win at poker with, but he does want to destroy everything I stand for and that he convinced me to dedicate 15 years of my life too...and possibly kill me too. So, yeah, bit conflicted.'

'Monroe's mad.'

'Eh,' Baker shrugged. 'But back to you. After getting blown up on the bridge I back-tracked to that cousin-marrying paradise of yours? They told me some very interesting things about you all.'

Aaron lunged to his feet. 'If you hurt them, if you hurt any of them-'

'Like I had the time,' Baker snorted, rolling his eyes. He grabbed Aaron's shoulder and squeezed until his collarbone creaked, pushing him back down. 'I just promised them tax breaks and waited for the venal to sell you out. It's not as dramatic, but it's quicker. There was this one thing they told me, now what was it.'

He tapped the matchbox open and shook a dozy looking bee out onto his hand. 

'Oh yeah,' he said, grinning. 'You're shit-scared of bees.'

Aaron shifted back in the seat. 'I'm not scared.'

'So do you want a bee?' Baker thrust his hand under Aaron's nose, the fat yellow and black assassin hitching a ride crawling towards Aaron's nose. He leant back as far as he could, panic kicking his heart against his ribs.

'Get it away from me!'

'Scared of bees,' Baker said as if that was settled, sitting back. He moved his hand idly, watching the been navigate scarred skin and heavy knuckles. 'So, you help us work out how this thingy works, because apparently no-one wants to believe in magic, and I don't stuff a bee up your nose.'

Aaron coughed out his panic. 'If you kill me, I'm not going to be any help.'

'If it gets to the point I have to deploy Sergeant Bee here, you've not been helpful anyhow,' Baker pointed out. 'Look, you think we couldn't find someone from Apple to do this? Firefox. Skype.'

The bee was balancing on the end of his forefinger. Aaron glared at them both. 'You're just saying names now.'

Baker shrugged. 'It's up to you, help while you wait for Miles to ride to your rescue on his particularly sturdy steed-'

'Fat jokes,' Aaron muttered. 'Never heard that before.

'Or I stick Sergeant Bee in an orifice and he sacrifices himself for the Republic. I mean, I'd rather not do that. Do you know how many bees we went through trying to shave M's onto their furry little asses? It's your choice.'

Aaron gulped and nodded. 'I don't even know if I can do anything with it,' he said. 'I had it for months and I couldn't make any inroads into it. Unless it is a wireless hub as well, the computer is going to be no-'

Putting the bee down on its matchbox, Baker fiddled with the pendant and popped out a USB. 

'Son of a bitch,' Aaron muttered. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of that. Damn it. He would hand in his genius card if he still had one.

OK, he could do this. He could find out what was on the USB and do it without Baker getting one red herring's worth of information. 

'I'll do it,' he said, hating the sound of his voice capitulating. Even though he knew he was going to doublecross them, he sounded weak and quavery. Always that kid hoping he could talk his way out of getting his head flushed. 'And then you'll let me go?'

'Maybee,' Baker said. 'Maybee not.'

He left, taking the bee with him, and sent the woman in to watch Aaron as he worked.


	2. Chapter 2

The grass was wet. It soaked through Miles' shirt, chilling his skin, as he sheltered under the scrubby brush at the edge of the woods to squint sourly at Jeremy's camp. He wouldn't go so far as to say they should leave Aaron to his fate, but he did kind of miss the days when it was it was an option.

Thump. Scuffle. Scuffle.

Charlie wriggled in next to him, jabbing him with her crossbow, and scowled intently at the cluster of white tents. She looked like she wanted to start shooting them on principle. 'So what's the plan?'

Miles sighed and scratched his nose. 'You stay here. I go get skewered.'

She snorted, more confident in his abilities than he was. Usually he appreciated it, but tonight it just made him feel old. He didn't want to kill Jeremy, and he really didn't want to be killed by his old friend.

'Don't underestimate Baker,' he said. 'He acts the fool, he might be the fool, but he's an unpredictable son-of-a-bitch. It sucks fighting him.'

Charlie gave him a sidelong look under her thick, gilt-tipped lashes. 'Is this because you were friends?'

'Nope,' Miles said. 'It's because he once conquered a city using phosphorous, fear and a donkey.'

Charlie blinked and opened her mouth. 

'Don't ask,' Miles told her.

It took her a second to accept that, but he guessed she'd got used to people not telling her things. She just glared at him for a second and looked back at the camp, watching the soldiers do their rounds.

'Are those women?' she said. 

'The militia recruits women.'

'Yeah, but we never see them,' Charlie pointed out. 'People always figured they were made into whores.'

Miles gave her a look. He'd admit the militia wasn't what he'd wanted it to be, back when he started, but some of the ideas people had about it were not deserved.

'Monroe has issues with women,' he said. 'Can't bring himself to send them to front line, tends to frown on commanders who do. Jeremy's the only one gets away with ignoring that.'

Charlie sniffed. 'Should have known he was the type to think women were weaker.'

'Not that,' Miles said. 'He had two little sisters. Figure he just doesn't like being reminded of burying them.'

Emotions flitted across Charlie's open face – surprise, discomfort, sympathy, guilt – and Miles bit his tongue. He didn't have to defend Monroe anymore, didn't GET to defend Monroe after Philly, but it was a hard thing to remember.

'I didn't know that,' she said. 'I never really thought about him having a family or-'

'It doesn't change who he is, what he'll do,' Miles said. 'Hitler loved dogs.'

'Who?'

Miles closed his eyes. He was really going to have ask Aaron what he did teach kids in that school of his.

'Ask me later,' he said. 'Stay here.'

She nodded. He gave her a hard look. 'Really, stay here. I got a plan, if Jeremy gets his hands on you-'

'I'll stay.'

Miles didn't believe her, but maybe she'd at least wait a bit longer than usual. He crawled out from under the brush and stood up, picking leaves out his hair and ignoring the throttled groan from Charlie. In the camp someone pointed and heads turned in his direction. Miles put his hands up and started to walk towards camp.

The guards raised their rifles to their shoulders, sighting along the long barrels. Miles stopped. 'It's me,' he said. 'General Matheson, I want to speak to Captain Baker.'

They fired at him. A bullet clipped his ear, warm blood trickling down his jaw, and he threw himself down in the long grass. Great. He guessed Monroe had changed the standing orders. OK, maybe he should have expected that.

The grass rustled around him and he rolled onto his knees, putting his hands behind his head. A circle of guns pointed in at him, even with the militia's terrible record on aiming...they couldn't miss. 'I surrender.'

The officer, a dark-eyed woman, considered him for a second and then stepped back, calling over her shoulder.

'He's alive,' she said. 'Says he surrenders.'

'Oh,' Jeremy said. 'Shoot him again.'

Miles cringed and hoped like hell Charlie was going – just this once – to listen to him. 'Jeremy,' he yelled. 'I saved your life.'

'Looking like a bad decision right about now, huh?'

'Not the greatest,' Miles admitted. 'Come on, Jeremy, just talk to me. Please. You owe me that.'

Jeremy appeared at the woman's shoulder and looked down at Miles. 'Miles, my man, you blew me up. According to the bro-code, that wipes the slate clean.'

'You sure that's what Monroe really wants?' Miles asked, looking up. He licked ear-blood off his lips. 'I mean, you think he's going to reward who ever kills me?'

Jeremy hooked his thumb through his belt, fingers tapping the heavy black leather. 'Buyer's remorse over the corpse, you mean?' he said. 'It's cool, I'm going to dump you in a shallow grave and tell him you never turned up.'

'What if someone finds me?'

Jeremy rolled his eyes. 'If ifs and ands were pots and pans, Miles. I'll rub some peanut-butter on your face so the squirrels and racoons will eat it first. Happy now?'

'Thrilled,' Miles muttered, shifting aching knees. Even with their guns trained on him, the eyes of the soldiers were white-rimmed with fear. It was nice to know he still had it. 'Fine, what if I have someone watching from the woods? Someone who can tell Monroe what really happened?'

There was a beat as Jeremy absorbed that. He glanced up at the woods, eyes tracking along the trees. 

'That niece of yours,' he said. 'Rachel's kid?'

'Someone.'

Jeremy rolled his head back and squinted up at the sky. 'Fine,' he said sourly, dropping his gaze to Miles. 'We talk, but I'm still going to kill you if I decide it's a good idea.'

'Fair enough,' Miles said. He lowered his arms, resting his hands on his thighs, and glanced sidelong at the soldiers. 'Think maybe you could get them to back off till I get up?'

'Why?' Jeremy asked, shrugging. 'If they shoot you, it's not my problem.'

He turned and walked away, leaving it to the soldiers to drag Miles to his feet and escort him into camp. Miles let a relieved breath escape his life. Everything was practically going according to plan.

*****

Jeremy ferreted out the half-bottle of whisky in his pack and poured two glasses. If he was going to do this, he might as well down some bad-choices juice and make the most of it. He handed one glass to Miles, who was sitting on the cot.

'What? No ice?' Miles asked, mouth quirking around the old joke.

'I should have just killed you,' Jeremy told him ruefully. 'I know better than to start talking to captives. What am I now, a Bond villain? Am I going to have to get a cat and a gimmick next?'

He grabbed one of the folding chairs and sat down in front of Miles, sipping their drinks in companionable silence. It didn't last long. Jeremy had timed it once. Silence had exactly 30 seconds to go from companionable to awkward. 

'So,' he said. 'Is this where you return Monroe's old 'Call Me Maybe' single and that really cute key-ring he got you for Valentine's one year? Or is this where you try and get me to turncoat.'

 

'Let Aaron go,' Miles said.

Jeremy clutched his glass up under his chin and gave Miles his best big-eyed, sad face. 'But we're going to be BFFs forever. Later, I was gonna braid his beard.'

The expression of long-suffering exasperation on Miles' face was familiar too. Jeremy smirked and took a sip of whisky, just wetting his lips. 'How about a trade?' he said. 'Aaron for Rachel. I mean, c'mon, she hates you.'

'Rachel and I have our...issues-'

'Haaaaaaates you,' Jeremy repeated, shaking his head. 'Man, if I was you? I would sleep with one eye open and one hand on my balls.'

'- but she's family.'

'Like that's stopped you before.'

'Shut up,' Miles growled, giving Jeremy the death-squint. Maybe that made baby-recruits pee themselves, but Jeremy was made of sterner stuff. He might have had a bit of a trickle, but that's why their trousers were so thick.

'Look, you dissing Monroe and stealing his girlfriend all in one night has sent my illustrious overlord straight into crazy!fuck land,' Jeremy said. 'And I don't want to come from a broken regime. It'll make me psychologically fragile.'

'Jeremy, that ship's sailed,' Miles said, finishing the whisky. 'And they weren't dating. He kept my sister-in-law prisoner.'

'I know, for seven years! That's a long time. In some states, if we still had laws about that sort of stuff, she'd be his common-law wife. She could get half the Republic in the divorce settlement and shared custody of me and Tom. Miles, you know Monroe doesn't do well when he's on his own.'

'He's got you.'

'And I am awesome,' Jeremy agreed earnestly. 'Handsome, clever, talented, funny...you might wanna write this down?'

Very funny.'

'I'm not you though. I'm not...family by virtue of contagion, either. He lets me talk, but he doesn't listen. Come back. You can make things better.'

'I make things worse, Jeremy,' Miles said. He set the empty glass by his leg and leant back, arm braced on the bed. 'How did you get Aaron anyhow.'

'Plan B.'

Miles screwed up his face in confusion. 

'You only ever have three plans,' Jeremy explained. 'Plan A: always intimidation. Plan B: get someone else to do it for you. Plan c: stab the shit out of everything. We came in on Plan B, waited for Plan C to hit the fan and took off with Aaron in the confusion.'

Miles scowled, opened his mouth to argue and closed it again. 'I have more than three plans,' he said finally.

'Sometimes, you go with Plan C.2,' Jeremy admitted. 'That's when you surrender to people, just before going stab happy.'

Miles heaved a lip-flapping sigh. 'I don't want to stab you, Jeremy.'

'Me neither,' Jeremy said, standing up and going over to the bed. He put his fingers lightly against Miles' chest and pushed, sending the other man sprawling back on the cot. 'That's why I dosed your drink.'

Miles blinked slowly and struggled to get his mouth to tighten enough to spit out, 'fucker'.

'Yeah,' Jeremy said. 'Look, couldn't you just fuck off to Georgia. They have coffee there, that'd immeasurably improve the life of anyone who has to associate with you. We won't have to kill each other.'

'My militia,' Miles slurred. 'My respoonsa...respons...'

Jeremy covered his mouth. 'Yeah,' he said. 'I get it. Hell, I should just slit your throat and enjoy being posted to the cold bits of Canada.'

'Deserve it,' Miles muttered, before the drugs knocked him out. Drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth. 

Poor sod didn't even look peaceful in his sleep, more like he was waiting for the sandman to kick him in the nadgers. Jeremy couldn't do it. Not this time. Next time, he'd just give orders to keep shooting until Miles wasn't twitching.

For now... he grabbed Miles arm and hauled him up off the bed, ducking to catch the weight of him over his shoulder... he'd make do with pissing him off.

******

When Charlie got back with Nora to rescue Miles, they found him cuddling on the ground with Aaron. Buck naked and lightly dabbed with peanut-butter.


End file.
